Page 8 of Exchanged

“Asshole,” he mutters, then closes his door.

A strange, childish part of me wishes Garrett were still standing here arguing with me. I stare at his closed door for a second before turning and sealing myself into my own room, his accented voice still ringing in my ears.

THREE

“That was the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” Garrett says, relaxing into his chair.

The remnants of salad and rigatoni and homemade gelato rest on the table in the glow of candlelight. Aunt Liz went all out, insisting on using china from the display case in the front hall. It could be bought tomorrow, but tonight it is covered in pomarola sauce made with tomatoes from the back garden.

“That sandwich thing. What was that called?” Garrett asks.

I eye him from across the table. He’s once again polite and charming, nothing remaining of the accusatory, judgmental boy from the doorway of my bedroom.

“Cudighi,” Emma answers.

“I’ve never had it before.”

“Probably not,” Aunt Liz says. “You can’t find it outside of the U.P.”

“The U.P.?”

Garrett seems genuinely interested, but considering he referred to Irontown as being in the middle of bumfuck nowhere an hour ago, it’s hard for me to read his curiosity as anything besides pandering to my family. In a week, he’ll be back in the city, laughing with his friends about the hicks whose house he crashed at for a night.

“The Upper Peninsula,” Emma says. “The part of Michigan that’s basically Canada.”

Garrett’s polite-or-patronizing interest sets Dad off on a long-winded history of Irontown, helped along by his empty glass of wine.

There are two types of people in the U.P.: people who are in love with it—the food, the geography, the unextraordinary history—and people who are just waiting to get out of it. Dad and Aunt Liz fit squarely into the first category, but I’m not sure which group I fall into. Every time I decide I want more than what this town can offer, I experience a stomach punch of guilt and anxiety at the thought of leaving behind everything I’ve ever cared about.

“Enough about our town,” Aunt Liz says, changing the subject. “Tell us about you.”

Garrett clears his throat. “I play football. I do debate. And next fall, I want to attend Ellison University in Atlanta for pre-law.”

The same list he gave us on the ride from the airport. He’s practiced this.

“What made you choose Ellison?” Aunt Liz asks.

“It’s a good school. Close to home. Has a great pre-law program.”

“Have you thought of Ellison, Enz?” Emma pipes up, always unhelpfully interested in my plans for next year.

“I probably shouldn’t,” I say. “I’m too gay.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Emma asks.

“They were in the news recently,” Aunt Liz explains, walking a tightrope between my comment and Garrett’s darkened expression. “They, um, failed to renew a professor’s contract right after she came out as lesbian. Big lawsuit and everything.”

“I didn’t say I agree with all their policies,” Garrett says, hands raised in surrender.

“But you’re going there,” I say.

“It’s all good,” Dad says. “Enzo will get a free ride to the Michigan School of Mines.”

“He’s going to be a miner?” Garrett asks.

I shift in my seat, avoiding eye contact with Dad. He’s never said he wants me to be a miner, but he’s also never said he doesn’t want me to be one, and will drop casual comments like this that imply there is one path for my future better than any other—a path that starts at a school with the word mines in its name.

The mine pays well, and it prevents young people from moving away, since a chance at a steady salary is not easy to come by in our town. But it’s also a mine. A massive, open pit south of town where my career choices might include driving a dump truck the size of a small house or blowing up several-ton chunks of rock with explosives strong enough to level a school. I doubt most of the guys who work there could tell the difference between an oboe and a bassoon.